To Wander
by Bocchi
Summary: In which a wanderer wanders for a day, and meets a fellow wanderer.


In which a wanderer wanders for a day.

* * *

His footsteps padded softly on the dirt road. The wind swirled around him, rustling the grass and the leaves on the trees. It tugged on his clothes, urging him onward. He moved a hand to his sword hilt to quiet the gusts into mere murmurs. Idly, he wondered why he was still wandering.

The sun shined through white, fluffy clouds, the birds flitted through the trees, and the grass swayed to and fro. And yet here he was, searching for an insidious thing like vengeance. When he had set out on his quest, so long ago, that drive in him burned strong. The wounds, the guilt, and the grief had clouded his mind and fueled the fire.

Now, all of that was a dull ache. What had burned so strongly was now dimmed, almost extinguished. In its place sat a small smoldering pile of ashes. That didn't mean his revenge was gone, of course. But, on days like this, where everything seemed right and he could forget all the wrongs, it was hard to remember his purpose.

He looked up at the sky. A pleasant heat shone down on his face, the breeze caressed his form, and the ground beneath his feet was firm and unyielding. On days like this, he wanted to forget his purpose.

* * *

It was nearing noon when a sudden thirst seized him. He grabbed his flask as he continued walking and swished it around. The lack of sloshing liquid made him frown. The next town was still two days away on foot, yet he was already out of alcohol. This needed to be remedied. He stopped and closed his eyes to listen.

The wind shifted, and a whisper of it breathed to him the location of a creek. It wasn't what he wanted, but water would have to do. He followed it into the forest, bringing him to a small clearing. He paused to take in the view. There, the small body of water snaked through the area, where a small tree sat in the center. The water bubbled and murmured quietly. The wind here was calm and peaceful. It was a perfect place to rest.

Instead of bringing him comfort, the sight tightened the guilt around his heart.

He left soon after slaking his thirst. The water was cool, and his flask was full. The wind guided him back onto the road. As he walked, his mind wandered off into the tempest that was his memories. The clearing had sparked something within him; it had reminded him of the other lands he had journeyed through.

He remembered the towering cliff, where he sat and played a somber tune for the valley beneath it. The gales had eroded the rock into a smooth and cool surface, yet on that night the the wind was calm. The moon was full and bright, and the woodland valley below was strangely quiet. He had played his flute for the night, so that something other than solitude accompanied him.

He felt the phantom heat of the desert he passed through long ago. It was there that he gained a greater understanding of the wind. The scorching hot gales of the day showcased strength and power, while the freezing flutters of the night hinted at subtlety. Among the sands he learned what hunger truly was, and what men would do just to slake their thirst.

He reminisced in the memory of walking through the tangled undergrowth of a jungle. Amidst the sweltering heat and twisting paths, he had walked. And there, he had fought and slain vicious beasts and crazed men. In that labyrinth of uncertainties, he discovered that it did not matter if his blade was sharp or if the wind he guided was swift; his mind had to be sharper and faster.

He blinked as he brought himself out of his musings. An orange tint covered the road and the trees, and the light blue sky was in the process of fleeing from the oncoming night. It would be evening soon.

* * *

He glowered at the meagre campfire he had built. No matter what he did, it would not grow. Adding more kindling was useless, and blowing a bit of air into it didn't have any visible effect either.

Usually, he eschewed fires. The wind was usually enough of a companion to keep him warm, but tonight was especially cold. It made sense, he supposed. It was nearing winter, and the cold climate was slowly creeping over the land. He'd have to start moving further south, if only to escape from freezing. He'd be damned if he had to go through another frozen hell.

Suddenly, the wind whirled around him, warning him of a presence. He would've sighed if he wasn't so tense. Attacks in the night were uncommon, but they happened much more often than he liked. Why anyone would assault someone who looked like a vagrant, he would never know.

"Who's there?" he called out.

The plod of cautious footsteps answered him, and a cloaked stranger stepped out from the edge of the clearing. They didn't seem hostile, whoever they were, but the wrapped bundle on their back looked like a comically large sword. Perhaps they were compensating for something?

"Hey there," a decidedly female voice answered. She was most assuredly not compensating for anything.

"Hello," he answered back. "Are you in need of something?"

"I was wondering if you'd let me share in the…," she seemed to remember that his fire was little more than embers, "fire you have here. In exchange for building something that will actually warm us up?"

He snorted, "Be my guest, lady. The more the merrier, I suppose." Inwardly, he cheered. No more freezing tonight for him!

He sat back as the stranger approached the fire. She shrugged off the cloak, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't believe in love of any type, but looking at her, he wanted to change his mind. The journey he had taken had always been lonely, and filled with hate. But perhaps…

A cold wind brushed against his skin, causing him to shiver and close his eyes. No, love had no place on his journey. This was a quest for redemption, and a man such as he did not deserve such. Not until he took his honor back. Not until he atoned for his sins.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked. He opened his eyes and saw that a fire was now blazing in the place of his attempts.

"I'm fine," he replied curtly.

The woman snorted. "You look cold." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her scanning her eyes all over him. "Would you like to spar?"

"What do you mean? I'm just a simple wanderer. "

"I'm sure that sword isn't just for show."

"It is. With the amount of bandits on the roads these days, a sword can help to deter them from vagrants like myself."

"Bandits wouldn't attack a 'vagrant like yourself.'"

"You'd be surprised at their desperation around these parts."

"It would help to warm us up."

He hesitated for a moment. He _really_ wanted to be warm. And it would be a good way to gauge how strong this woman was. He sighed dramatically. "Very well. You win. We'll have a spar."

Luckily, the clearing was wide enough for one, and the sun hadn't gone all the way down yet. Rays of orange splayed onto the ground, as he scanned the earth for any dips or raises. "Rules?" he asked. It seemed as if he had stumbled upon a relatively flat part of the forest. He should've snuck in some practice earlier.

"Nothing lethal, obviously," the woman replied, "and first blood." She took the bundled weapon and slowly unwrapped it. It was… a sword. A heavy block-like thing. But something was off.

"Is that...," he struggled to find the right word.

"Broken?" she interrupted. "Yes. It's as they say: a sword mirrors its owner." She swung the weapon around, obviously lost in thought.

He looked down at his own weapon. When he had first gotten it, he had been not thought much of it. They were strangers, he and his sword. Both of them bloodless and innocent, pure and naive. Now, his sword was his only companion. They had both carved a bloody path for something as petty as vengeance. But that path was all he knew. ' _A sword mirrors its owner, huh? She might be onto something.'_

"You ready?" she said. He first settled into a comfortable stance and looked up at her as he nodded.

He barely had time to dodge.

The woman had rushed him as soon as he was ready. And she kept rushing at him. She was an unrelenting force. Heavy strike after heavy strike rained down on him. He was barely evading them. His own probing stabs and swings were viciously parried, blocked, or dodged. If he was the gentle wind, then she was a gale.

Unfortunately, it was a stalemate. His strikes were stopped before they would reach her. Her blows could not catch him. He needed to create an opening, something she wouldn't expect from him. He dodged one last blow from the broken sword by stepping farther back than usual. Before the woman could resume her assault, he swung. Not at her, but at the ground. As his blade carved a furrow into the dirt, wind gathered at his will, along the line across the earth. It geysered up into a wall of wind, seemingly blocking her path. It was, of course, harmless, but it did its job.

Her eyes widened. Her steps faltered. Her oncoming blow was paused. His blade struck out in a stab.

He sheathed his sword as a line of red appeared on her cheek. "Good spar."

"You cheated," she accused.

"It wasn't against the rules," he calmly retorted.

She touched her wound and glared at him. "Well, couldn't you have aimed anywhere else?"

He stepped away from her and quickly rummaged through his sack. "Sorry, I was just mesmerized by you face."

"Complimenting a lady after you wound her doesn't help, you know."

"A lady? I don't see one anywhere. Especially not you, with our recent spar in mind."

"This is–this is just how I was taught!" she insisted.

He paid it no mind and finally found what he was looking for, tossing the object to her. "Here, bandages." As she tended to the wound, he walked back to the fire and sat down. He looked to the west, where a sliver of the orange sun peeked over the horizon and through the trees. It was a sight the man was familiar with and had seen countless times. But this time… this time it was different. The presence of another person made so much of a difference. There was a warmth within him now, not caused by the campfire, a feeling he hadn't had in years.

There was a thump as the woman sat down roughly across from him.

"So," she started, "wind powers, huh?"

"Yes."

"I used to have wind powers too–" his whole body tensed at those words, "but with my sword broken, they're gone," and then he relaxed at the next. A lifetime of hunting people with the ability to control wind had made him tense at any mentions of it. But this wasn't the time to be tense and suspicious. He was tired and all he wanted to do was sit near this fire and talk, to drive away the cold and the solitude. Besides, this person seemed genuinely good-natured, despite her somewhat rough nature.

He looked up as an idea formed in his head. He almost hesitated in acting it out, but what could be the harm? He knew the road to honor would be a lonely one when he set out, but nobody said you had to be alone the whole time, right?

"My name is Yasuo," he offered.

"Riven," she replied with a smile.

"Say, where are you heading to, Riven?" Yasuo tentatively asked.

"South," she said, brows scrunched in confusion. "Why?"

"Well, I was wondering if…"

* * *

End

Yeah, I know it's shit. Deal with it.


End file.
